


For Bright Skies

by potolok



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Romance, Slytherin!Sirius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-01-10 07:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12294426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potolok/pseuds/potolok
Summary: R/S Games 2017 - Day 10 - Team SiriusSirius remembers when the stars were idols. Now, he craves the sun.





	For Bright Skies

**Author's Note:**

> **Team:** Sirius  
>  **Title:** For Bright Skies  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Warnings:** Angst, mentioned canon death, swearing  
>  **Genres:** Angst, Romance, Slytherin!Sirius AU  
>  **Word Count:** 11,000  
>  **Summary:** Sirius remembers when the stars were idols. Now, he craves the sun.  
>  **Prompt:** #22 - The eyes that mock me sign the way  
>  Whereto I pass at eve of day.
> 
> Grey way whose violet signals are  
> The trysting and the twining star.
> 
> Ah, star of evil! Star of pain!  
> High-hearted youth comes not again
> 
> Nor old heart's wisdom yet to know  
> The signs that mock me as I go."  
> \- "Bahnhofstrasse" by James Joyce

Three years ago, when Sirius boarded the Hogwarts train for one last ride home, he watched the Scottish landscape blur by, old and opulent, and when he finally turned his eyes away, he promised himself he would forget.

Now, in the opaque morning light filtering through the curtains of Alphard’s old house, he remembers. The newspaper lies spread on the kitchen table, the title screeching and screaming alongside the long-forgotten kettle. He doesn’t know how many minutes the ticking of the old wall clock accounts for, or how many deep breaths he’s taken to pull back from the initial gasp. But the fact is there, harsh black on muddy white, printed in fateful ink: _Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived._   James and Lily Potter, who did not.

How strange, he thinks. James Potter didn't seem the type to _die_. There was too much life in him — so much that you couldn't imagine him being knocked down without getting up, ever more determined. There was too much fire in his eyes to simply be stomped out with a blow or a spell; yet there he was now, lying limply on the ground, most certainly dead. What a deceiving mind man has, he ponders — one sees death everywhere around him, twisting smiles, crushing hopes, ripping hearts out of mothers and knocking soldiers to their knees, and yet, we never conceive of it happening to us, robbing us of _our_  friends, bringing down the people _we_  knew. And when it hits, we think, _'How could this happen to me?',_ despite every flashing sign .

He sighs, sits up, and in an absurd, unwitnessed gesture of protest, throws the newspaper in the fireplace, where the flames ignited the night before are slowly dying away. _How fitting,_ he thinks.  Two fires going out at once.  _'Don't start with the metaphors, now, you might get mistaken for a sentimental.’_

It's not that Potter and him had been close, not anywhere near. Nor were they the sort of rivals who, in a kinder world, could have been friends. There was no head-on confrontation or occasional display of comradery. The only real emotion Potter had sparked in him, just once, was rage. There was, for the most part, only silence, rarely acknowledged, and a small number of exchanged glances hinting at respect. However, he could count those isolated happenings on one hand, and he probably wouldn't have even bothered to remember them, had Potter not loomed in the background of someone he _had_  once gotten sentimental about.

He wondered how Remus felt, whether he was torn up on the floor wrenching and sobbing, or whether he was frozen in his dining chair, with his mind shut off and in denial. He cared so much about James, and Lily, and although Sirius hadn't seen proof of this, undoubtedly about their son as well. _No,_ he thinks. Cares — still cares, probably will until his dying breath, because that's how he is. Sirius is almost certain that, even now, Remus still holds an ounce of melancholy and tainted tenderness even for him, who should by now be only a bitter memory, torn and blotted out. How very ironic, he realizes, the way he's come to think of himself sometimes, in moments like these when, despite everything, his heart gets the better of him. He used to stand so tall and proud, confident that he was destined for glory, for greatness, for _shining_. By virtue of his given name, he was a star — the brightest of them all. And whereas in his school days this title received by right of birth seemed to lay a red carpet in front of his every path, it now felt as little more than a cruel irony, a mockery of a grey man, tossed by the stars themselves. He briefly wondered how it felt not to be compelled to chastise himself for his feelings — how people dealt with these hassles other than shoving them away to be forgotten. To feel himself burning with anger, to scream, kick and shout, hit the walls and wail his despair with his hands in fists and his head in a daze, to cry not silently, counting every tear, but sob without stopping to think that anyone might hear, and if they hear so what, this is my heart flung out the window, it's my world crumbling down, and my right to be _human_. 

He supposes that this is how Remus feels, and he is both ashamed and proud in the knowledge that, had he been in Remus's place, this entire show would go down inside him, blindly and mutely, buried in a rush, together with the shovel. Remus, on the other hand, had always been a rather sentimental fellow — he remembers the good-hearted laughs, soft smiles and honest tears that he seemed to conjure up so effortlessly. If he were to be more honest with himself, perhaps he’d regret scowling more often than not at these displays of sincere emotion, but nonetheless, letting his feelings spill through with no filter had always seemed a foreign concept to Sirius. Even as a child at Hogwarts, the Black family mask had already been sculpted onto his face, successfully concealing his youthful enthusiasm and awe.

  
 

He remembers the first time he met Remus, a somewhat shy and lanky boy on his first week at Hogwarts, not quite grasping the magnitude of his new found surroundings yet. Sirius had been in a foul mood ever since the Sorting — not that he minded the outcome, not exactly, but still he felt like he hadn’t managed to live up to an expectation he never knew he had for himself. He’d been the very first of the lot to be sat down on the stool and have the Sorting Hat put on his well-groomed head. He remembers looking around the Great Hall, among the students at the four house tables, and meeting their inquisitive eyes. A few looked on in boredom, as if knowing that his last name had already bought him a one-way ticket to Slytherin. For a split second, he felt the need to challenge that assumption, but whether the disdain he felt was for those pretending to know the first thing about him, or for those that had come before him and set the path that now he, too, was expected to walk, he did not know, and did not care to know. He only felt, resembling a parasite on a quest to rot his insides, the need to prove himself, although he didn’t know why and to whom. He tried to ignore the apalling feeling, but in the split second that he had harboured these thoughts, the Sorting Hat seemed to grasp them. A mere moment later, he heard it yelling _"Slytherin!"_ , and that  was that.

Perhaps he didn't wholly understand then how that single word would alter his fate, but he did feel a sense of inexplicable loss settle upon his heart, no matter how high he held his head and how proudly he walked over to the Slytherin table. Now he realizes, and the thought always leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, that it could have been different. Had he not been so concerned with proving something or other — what did he want to prove, anyway? — perhaps he would've been given a second chance. Perhaps the apathy, contempt and iciness could have been replaced by something else, something kinder, before they took roots and settled inside him irrevocably. He'd tried not to further dwell on this; what good would that bring, now? The deed was done, his fate was sealed, and there was nothing he could do about it other than grit his teeth and live up to it. Naturally, there were moments when he couldn't keep his mind from exploring the possibilities; sitting alone in the library, he was both annoyed and jealous when a group of Hufflepuffs covered their mouths and rocked slightly in their chairs, in a rather failed attempt at keeping their giggling in tow. Watching as Potter made a fool of himself trying to charm Evans, he almost smiled as Remus, although noticeably amused, begged James quietly to just _'let it go, mate, before you start spewing nonsense again',_  while Pettigrew sniggered away.

Perhaps that was what he'd lost when being held in high opinion by other supposedly respectable people became more important than things like school friendships that, although fun while they lasted, only served to distract and briefly entertain, without any palpable benefits at the end of the day. Or perhaps he simply lost himself when human interaction became either profitable or pointless.

And yet, Remus seemed to be able to defy that classification from the first interaction he had with Sirius. The unfamiliar kindness in this ordinary boy's eyes both angered and endeared him, because it seemed unnatural and cruel to respond to such honest warmth with spurn, even for him, to whom smiles and soft voices seemed rather exotic in their rarity. The circumstances were so unremarkable and had no need for this type of friendly attitude — a joint Potions class, shared by Gryffindor and Slytherin. Professor Slughorn had appointed the pairs they were to work in and instructed them to make a Forgetfulness Potion, a rather simple task that Sirius could have easily handled on his own. However, since the authority figure had seen fit that he do it with a partner, so be it, at least in theory.

"I already know how to do this, so I'll quickly take care of the potion, and you won't have to do anything. I won't utter a word about this to Slughorn, so you needn't worry about that," he said quickly, hoping that Remus would simply agree and let him get on with his work.

"Actually, if that's the case, perhaps I could make the potion and you could guide me along? Since you already know how to do it, I mean."

Sirius almost rolled his eyes at Remus's shy smile and willingness to work even when the opportunity not to had been presented to him directly and with no consequences. However, he had no excuse to be impolite, so he agreed, although the prospect of boring conversation about a potion that he had already mastered before coming to Hogwarts was less than enthralling. Silently, he walked over to the ingredients cupboard and grabbed a few Valerian springs and a small bottle of Lethe River Water, before returning and setting them on Remus's side of the desk, who was now furrowing his brow in concentration, hunched over his Potions textbook. Looking up, he offered Sirius a smile and thanked him, then glanced one more time at the instructions and grabbed the bottle Sirius had brought, visibly eager to get started.

"Just tell me if I'm doing everything correctly, all right?"

"Yeah, all right," Sirius threw one leg over the other and crossed his arms over his chest, almost sighing in boredom. He wondered how such a simple potion making experiment could pique someone's interest. Unless... yes, now that he thought about it, it seemed to make enough sense — the awestruck expression, the shy smile, the poorly concealed enthusiasm —they all indicated that this boy was not quite familiar with magic. He narrowed his eyes, watching as Remus carefully double-checked every step of the potion before going through with it. He was obviously inexperienced and afraid not to embarrass himself. Moreover, he had not shown any kind of reaction when he was partnered with Sirius — nothing of the typical mixture of respect, nervousness and perhaps slight fear he was used to being greeted with — so chances were he didn't know who he was. Had Slughorn orchestrated this, pairing him up with a muggle-born? Was the man mocking him, or was this just chance’s doing?

"Say, are your parents wizards?"

"My dad is. But he works muggle jobs these days, usually."

Sirius nodded, stopping himself from asking why Remus's father would opt for such a dull lifestyle, and settled on watching him as he waved his wand in a surprisingly confident manner, then leaning forward to peek at the contents of the cauldron. The first part of the potion was seemingly done, so he looked at the results himself; the colour looked all right and the liquid was brewing normally.

"How is it?"

"Seems fine."

"So, now we just wait for forty-five minutes?"

"Let's say fifty for good measure, but yes," Sirius replied, his arms still crossed, hoping that Remus would get the hint and not attempt to make conversation during the dreadful fifty minutes. Perhaps he wasn't muggle-born, but half-bloods and Blacks didn't usually make good friends, either.

"What do you think of Hogwarts so far?"

No such luck. Sirius blinked, trying to keep an impassable look without actually appearing overtly rude. He spared Remus a glance before replying, "It's all right, I suppose."

"I think it's brilliant. Everything is just so... grand, you know? And the classes are so much more interesting than anything they taught in muggle school. What's your favourite subject so far?"

"Transfiguration," Sirius said after a moment's thought. Yes, he did like Transfiguration. What he did not like, however, were half-blooded Gryffindors questioning him about his personal tastes.

"Listen," he said, "Do you know who I am?"

"Sirius Black, right?"

"So then why do you insist on prolonging this conversation?"

Remus looked shocked — hurt, even, for the split second when he looked down and tightened his shoulders. "I just thought you'd like to talk, that's all," he said faintly. Sirius almost felt guilty for making Remus's smile drop so abruptly, but there was also a part of him that rejoiced in the power his words had had.

"Well, I don't. You should have known that the moment you knew my name."

At this, Remus frowned, his face no longer sad, but thoughtful. He looked up at Sirius as though searching for something on his face, then bowed his head again, speaking towards the floor. "That doesn't mean anything, you know. James told me some things about your family, and I understand why you'd feel like this, but frankly, it's all quite ridiculous."

Suddenly provoked, Sirius straightened his back in his chair, his fingers involuntarily curling into fists and, reminding himself it was improper to cause a scene in class, whispered  in a way perhaps more menacing than shouts could achieve, "You don't know a thing about my family, you don't know a thing about me, and you _certainly_  don't know a thing about what anything means."

Instead of backing away, however, or staring wide-eyed back at him as he'd expected, Remus smiled sheepishly and said, "I know you like Transfiguration. Now, I believe those fifty minutes are up, so how about we go back to the potion?"

And Sirius knew, he was suddenly sure, that Remus Lupin was much more than a shy, half-blooded Gryffindor boy. And although that scared him, when he went down the stairs that night and into the damp Slytherin Dungeons, he felt slightly less lonely than he had since he'd arrived at Hogwarts, and that had to mean something, although he didn't know what himself.

  


Of course, he knows what it meant now, although he doesn't quite like it. It meant that Remus was the first one to treat him as an equal — not like an inferior, as his family often did, and not as a superior, like most people at Hogwarts, even within the Slytherin house. It meant that Remus was neither impressed, nor intimidated by him and his roots, and _that_  madehim Sirius's equal. And in equality, there was understanding; perhaps Remus didn't come from an ancient pure-blood family and wasn't named after a star, but he understood. He understood what it was like to be branded with a label he hadn't chosen, a label he could sometimes hide, but never leave behind. Of course, it was only much later that he began to see it this way, and he is tempted to laugh at his own vanity, so egregious in his Hogwarts years and still here, still his, although dulled by the years and his own decaying view of the world and of himself.

Still standing dumbly in front of his fireplace, the newspaper turned to ashes by now, he looks around, the house suddenly appearing smaller, and he feels confined. He knows that, in reality, it's not the house keeping him here, but himself. He knows that he's perfectly capable of leaving, he can envision himself at the door, putting his coat on, opening the door, stepping outside, shutting it closed again and locking it. The images play out before his eyes, in his mind, but he cannot move. His breathing is different, heavier; his feet are glued to the floor; something is screaming madly inside his mind; he wants to shake his head, to clear his thoughts, but he can only move his eyes towards the door, and the air is now intoxicated, it's strangling him and he needs to get out, to leave, _now._

_'No.'_

With a brutal effort of consciousness, he forces himself out of his lethargy and moves slowly, painfully, to the cooker, where the kettle is now whistling furiously. He stops the fire, desperate for the damned thing to quiet down, to just  _shut up, for Merlin's sake._  The steam is no longer blowing, it's just an old, dreadful kettle, but he can hear it — he can hear it screaming at him from inside his head, and now it's not screaming anymore, it's howling, as if in agony and — _oh, fuck, fuck it, to hell with it all, everything be damned!'_

He can't hear himself think anymore. He waves his hand, slaps the cursed kettle and burns his hand, but it's on the floor now, and it's quiet, finally, and although the tea is spilled all over the kitchen floor and the skin on his hand is throbbing, he can at least lean against the table, close his eyes and think about all this. About his own lack of self-control, about this wretched feeling in his stomach, about how he'll have to clean this mess up later, about how he knows exactly why he feels the need to leave and where, and about how it hurts him that he knows. He can't do it, he thinks. He'd be mad, he thinks. It's not his place to go, it's not his right to be there.

If only he'd known, if only he'd cared enough, or not at all. He wishes he'd never met Remus. He hates Remus — for doing this to him, for breaking his resolve, for making him weak and regretful and unsure. No, that's not true, of course it's not true, he could never hate Remus. But hate is familiar, and comforting, and a refuge; but it's also ugly, and unfair, and too reminiscent of his parents to truly be his own. What is genuinely his is this arduous contradiction of adoration, spite and regret, instilled by Remus through means unknown to him. He's always believed that, throughout it all, he was in control; everything that happened did so because he allowed it, and solely because of that. Now, he's not so sure — he's starting to doubt that the choice to walk away was ever a choice at all. He's used to thinking _'perhaps, if I had walked away that day',_  but he sees now how that thought is silly; he would have never walked away.

  


By his forth year at Hogwarts, Sirius had grown used to spending most days in his own company. There was a modest number of acquaintances scattered throughout Slytherin and Ravenclaw whom he talked to about classes, professors and Quidditch, but the conversations always remained impersonal, neutral, safe. The only person he sometimes confided in was his brother, but Regulus had made friends with people Sirius wasn't awfully fond of; and although he had never said anything, he preferred to keep his distance. That left him, for the most part, on his own, but the thought of making what one would call close friends didn't bother him anymore. He was, all in all, quite content with his life at Hogwarts, although it wasn't what most dreamed of. So when, a fortnight before the winter holidays, he walked around Hogsmeade in search of a Christmas present for Regulus, he didn't mind passing by carefree couples and lively groups of students enjoying the snow and the early festive atmosphere.

He ended up buying an old-looking quill with a beautiful, elegant swan feather that he was quite sure Regulus would be fond of. Drenched in the snow falling steadily from the white sky and students chattering at every step, the small village looked beautiful, and Sirius felt almost happy, if it weren't for the nagging thought that he would soon have to leave this haven and return home, where he was expected to engage in polite conversation with his parents and various other relatives, talk about his fellow colleagues and tell every guest about his close to perfect academic results. Holidays were always like this with his family, and if when he was a child the excitement of Christmas gifts overshadowed the stale social customs, now they felt like little more than a chore he had to endure before returning to Hogwarts, where at least no one was constantly breathing down his neck.

He found a bench that wasn't completely covered in snow yet and sat down, taking in the cold, peaceful surroundings that seemed akin to something out of a fairy tale. He wanted to breathe in the icy air and feel like a child again; to forget that he would soon have to leave and return to the castle grounds, to classes, to expectations and to the claustrophobic dungeons. This moment was meant to be unspoiled, a tranquil memory to come back to on darker days.

"Hey," a voice greeted, as he caught a glimpse of a red scarf, and its owner taking a seat beside him. "I don't usually see you around here."

"I'm not usually around here."

"What brought you here today, then? Somehow, I find it hard to believe it was the Christmas lights," Remus said, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

"And I find it hard to believe it's any of your bloody business," he said, glaring. "What are you here for, anyway?"

"James and Peter are on an epic quest to locate a certain redhead I shall not name, and I, for one, am not feeling particularly adventurous today. You know, I don't think I've ever seen you wear that expression until today."

"You've certainly seen the one I'm wearing now. You know what it means."

Remus laughed lightly, his green eyes bright against the red of his scarf. Sirius looked at him in confusion, amazed once again at how unaffected he was by his hostility. He reached inside his bag and produced a brown wool hat with fur ear flaps and large, slightly uneven reindeer antlers which were too heavy to sit upright properly.

"I got James this preposterous thing. I was even considering getting one myself. What do you think, eh?", he asked, pushing the ridiculous Christmas hat down on his head. It made his light brown hair cover the better half of his eyes and he squinted through it, looking at Sirius with a bemused expression.

Sirius allowed his mouth to curve into a half smile and, meeting Remus's warm eyes with his own skeptical grey ones, said, "It seems tailor-made for Potter. Perhaps let him be the sole wearer of this atrocity, though. Merlin knows one is enough."

"Always the voice of reason, aren't you?", Remus asked lightly, putting the silly hat back in his bag and, thankfully, away from Sirius's eyes. "Have you ever heard of Santa Claus?"

"Who?"

"Muggles say that there is an old man named Santa who's responsible for people's Christmas gifts. Children even write letters to him. He is supposedly this kind, white-bearded man who, on Christmas night, enters through the chimney and leaves presents under the Christmas tree. It's mostly a children's tale. My mom used to talk about him as if he were real when I was younger."

"Is this muggles' conception of magic?", Sirius started. "What a load of bollocks. It's an insult to real magic."

"I suppose it is rather improbable, indeed. I could definitely imagine Dumbledore doing this kind of thing, though. He even fits the profile," Remus speculated. "Don't worry, I'm only joking. Still, this concept of Santa is quite nice, I think. There's something comforting about believing that once a year, _everyone_  gets presents from the same more or less mythical creature. It can bring people together."

"Until they grow up, learn that it was their parents' doing all along and the magic is shattered. Better not to believe in this nonsense at all. What good is it to build an expectation only to have it inevitably fall apart later?"

"It's only a story, Sirius. Let the kids have their fun, will you? You old cynic," Remus laughed. "In any case, I should get going. James and Peter have probably successfully embarrassed themselves by now. I just hope they didn't get hexed, this time," he sighed. "Oh, and Sirius, Happy Christmas," he reached inside his pocket, took out a half frozen Chocolate Frog, and handed it to Sirius.

"Thank you," he said, surprised. Remus smiled, then quickly threw his bag over his shoulder and started walking towards the village shops, only turning to wave briefly at Sirius before being swallowed by the crowd.

Sirius stood, the Chocolate Frog still clasped tightly in his hand, and wondered why he suddenly felt like skipping. Wiping the smile off his face, he walked in content solitude back to the castle, where he ate the chocolate from Remus with small, tentative bites, as if not ready to part with it just yet. He felt slightly disgusted with himself for feeling so much attachment to a small present from a brown haired Gryffindor with too many scars and silly muggle Christmas tales. However, he found it hard to entirely dislike the pull he felt towards Remus and, if he tried hard enough to convince himself there was nothing wrong with it as long as no one found out, he almost believed it. So, when he discreetly dropped a small box of chocolates on Remus's desk in Potions, he was careful to keep his eyes on Professor Slughorn as Remus looked around for the mysterious 'Santa' signed on his unexpected gift.

When they came back from the winter holidays, not much seemed to have changed. Remus still spent the better part of his time with Potter and Pettigrew, pulling pranks and making jokes. Sirius still wandered through the castle on his own or with Regulus, talking quietly and trying not to see a more well-adapted version of himself in his younger brother. But sometimes, when Remus wasn't with his infamous friends, he would greet Sirius with a smile and they would talk for a few minutes, before he would have to rush off and do this or that, or before he would say something that he wasn't supposed to and Sirius would lose his temper, call him an ignorant git and leave. But before long, the conversations started to flow easier, last longer, and Sirius found himself answering more of Remus's questions before getting angry and storming off. These abrupt and unpleasant goodbyes didn't seem to bother Remus; he always greeted Sirius with the same friendly attitude, no matter what he'd said to him before. Sirius, for his part, never apologized, but didn't stay angry with Remus either. It was a tacit agreement that what they had — not friendship exactly, but not quite mere polite conversation either — would not be crippled so easily.

Somewhere around the last breaths of winter or the first flowers of spring, they began studying together in the library, in the quiet hours of early morning or late evening. Sirius avoided talking to Remus extensively outside of these private quarters; he knew rumours started circulating quickly. And while he didn't particularly care for the voices at Hogwarts, he was acutely aware of how close his parents truly loomed. He knew that, should the wrong people find out about this unlikely bond, the news would travel quickly to 12 Grimmauld Place, and there would be hell to pay. He had always tried, if not to please his parents, at least keep them satisfied with what he was growing into. Befriending a Gryffindor and a half-blood was certainly no way to do that, but the years of unenthusiastic welcomes and indifferent goodbyes, between which only words of how he must appear in society were said, he found it hard to resist Remus's warm eyes and compassionate smile. Isolating himself from potential friends had never felt like too high a price to pay for his parents' approval. Now, however, it hardly seemed worth it. Still, he didn't have the boldness to go directly against them. He couldn't find it in himself to stand in front of them with his back straight, under their scrutinizing eyes, and tell them that a boy unworthy of the Black family's respects made him happier than they ever had. So he resolved to keep Remus a secret and try not to panic at night, when visions of his mother peeling his face off the wall tapestry in fits plagued his mind.

Remus had turned out to be both a good listener and surprisingly capable of keeping a conversation alive when Sirius was not in high spirits. He'd come to know more about what Sirius loved and hated than even his own brother. He had a quick mind and a dry humour which rivalled his own, and he could be both understanding and challenging when the need called for it. He wasn't afraid to contradict Sirius's opinions on muggles, societal norms and the rights of House Elves and other magical creatures. And sooner or later, Sirius found himself questioning his own beliefs, although he found it hard to let go of his inborn sense of superiority and merit.

On some days, Remus looked better than on others; sometimes, he seemed frail and sickly, and it happened so often that Sirius was slightly worried, even though he always got better before long. It also made him suspicious of Remus, who avoided his questions every time he would bring up the topic. He understood that, like him, Remus wasn't willing to share everything, but this nevertheless raised doubts in Sirius's mind about the other boy's reasons for being friends with him, although there wasn't anything else that indicated any sort of ulterior motive. But he was used to questioning people rather than trusting them, and this didn't change, no matter how his feelings of sympathy for Remus affected him. He also didn't want to push the subject, though; he could tell that it was a sensitive topic, and propriety dictated that he respect Remus's boundaries, especially if he had any hope of ever finding out what this secret was. Instead, he started keeping track of the dates Remus fell sick and eventually vanished from Hogwarts, only to return looking worn out and torn.

Late spring found him sitting alone at the Astronomy Tower, on a chilly night that wasn't quite ready to grow into summer. The library had closed, but he still had thinking to do, and the Slytherin Common Room wasn't the most appropriate location to ponder on these thoughts. He'd begun writing down the dates of Remus's disappearances on a piece of parchment which he kept with him at all times, careful not to let anyone see it. He knew these occurences happened about a month apart from each other, but he couldn't piece anything together beyond that. Today, too, Remus had been impossible to find around the school grounds, after a few days of looking tired and feeble. He had continued to ignore this in their increasingly frequent conversations, although Sirius was sure that Remus was no fool, and that he was able to tell it still bothered Sirius. The weak excuses he sometimes provided for his monthly trips outside school grounds sounded so obviously like lies to Sirius, that he sometimes wondered if the brown haired boy was even trying to make them believable. He was now almost sure that this strange habit was part of something larger that Remus wasn't telling him, and once he'd even lost his temper and shouted, accusing him of only staying around for information which Merlin knows to whom he'd later report. Remus had stayed quiet for a while, looking downcast, and then whispered, "I'm sorry if you truly believe that", quickly fleeing the scene afterwards. He didn't believe it, not really, because Remus seemed too sincerely kind and gentle to do that to anyone, Black or not. But he acknowledged the possibility, and figured that the sooner he found out what this whole ordeal was really about, the sooner he could go back to regarding Remus as a friend and not like a potential spy. This was, in part, due to the unsettling fear of losing him and being forced to revert back to the unperturbed solitude that he wasn't so fond of anymore. What truly scared him, however, was the nature of this fear; if all he wanted was a friend, it didn't have to be Remus. Why should he be irreplaceable? But every time he asked himself this, peering through his lashes at the boy's plain brown hair, angular figure and scarred face and hands, he felt a knot tie itself in his stomach and his face flush.

He didn't quite understand how this happened — perhaps it was inevitable, as Remus was the only person who had that sort of potential, solely because he was the only person apart from his brother whom he truly talked to. It was a loathsome thing to think, though, that the only reason he felt attracted to Remus was because it was convenient. Ultimately, it was irrelevant anyway, because he could not do anything about it, except live with it and try to ignore it. There was no room for _'but'_  or _'what if'_ , just as there had been none when he'd been sorted into Slytherin. He couldn't change it, therefore it didn't matter how he felt about it, and dwelling on thoughts that only caused pitiful melancholy was not only unnecessary, but disgraceful for someone who called himself a Black. Regardless of whatever feelings he might have had for Remus, what he needed to do was find out the meaning behind his odd behaviour, and sever all ties with him if need be.

There were also the scars; whatever small parts of Remus's body he could see — his face, his hands, sometimes, very rarely, in the library, when he was deep in thought about something and kept fidgeting, rolling his long sleeves up and down, his lean, pale forearms — were littered with scars, some faded, some recent, of different sizes, but always long and fairly thin. Sirius couldn't imagine what could have happened to him to gather such an array of scars — they looked like some kind of feral animal had cut and scratched him all over. None of this made any sense, although Sirius was intuitively sure that the scars and the disappearances were somehow part of the same puzzle.

He sighed, looking at the scribbled dates on his parchment for the hundredth time, still no epiphany in sight. Ready to give up for the night and go to his dormitory, he shoved the piece of parchment in his robe pocket and leaned against the stone fence enclosing the Astronomy Tower for a few more minutes of mulling over how else he could approach this. He studied the stars, glowing brightly around the yellow tinted full moon. He had forgotten the names of all the stars and constellations his father had taught him when he was still but a small child, fascinated by the specks of white light in the dark sky, and bubbling with pride when, during the early hours of morning, he showed him the star he was named after — the brightest in the entire sky — and told him that whenever he was unsure of himself, he ought to look up to the stars for guidance and see himself up there, a king reigning in his night-time kingdom. He wished he could feel the same sort of delight now, sitting alone on the cold stone floor, trying to piece together a puzzle that wasn't his own. The stars didn't seem to offer any guidance now, when the tiredness in his eyes made them look dulled and grey, and he felt incredibly small and insignificant, looking at the ominous full moon looming among the stars. He wished that Remus could have been there with him, to gaze at the moon and the stars together, and show him the few constellations that he still remembered. The corners of his mouth curved upwards slightly thinking of Remus, but his smile quickly fell. Remus, who wasn't here, because he went away without ever telling Sirius where. Remus, who had so many scars, but would never speak of how he'd got them. Remus, of whose secrets Sirius was starting to get tired of.

He sighed again, got up on his feet and started towards the flight of stairs. But before taking the first step, his eyes found the moon for one last time, and he froze, a sharp pain suddenly stabbing at his chest.

Afterwards, he barely slept. He lay awake in bed, his bed curtains drawn around him, not being able to see the moon from his dorm in the dungeons, but highly aware of its looming above him, above Remus, who now wasn't the Remus he knew, but a bloodthirsty beast. In a way, he felt relieved to know that his theory about Remus plotting against him had proved untrue, but he didn't know whether this outcome was better or worse than what he'd originally believed. He felt repulsed by himself for not figuring it out sooner, for thinking that whatever Remus's secret was, it had something to do with him, and he also felt repulsed by Remus, the werewolf who roamed the corridors of Hogwarts as if he were a normal student, for being so kind, so perceptive, so understanding as to make Sirius fall in love with something he wouldn't have otherwise dared to even talk to. Of course, he knew it wasn't really Remus's fault — that he probably only wanted to lead as normal a life as possible, despite his condition. But how could he let Sirius get so close to him, when they were both everything the other one should have avoided?

When Remus came back to school, he said hello to Sirius, and Sirius gave back a forced smile, saying he was in a hurry, and scurried away. No matter how much he tried to rationalize it, to tell himself it didn't matter, there was a voice in his head, that could have been his mother's or his own, which told him a friendship with someone like Remus was wrong — that Remus himself was wrong, a sorry half-breed whose place was nowhere near the Black family.

He knew that whatever ties he had with Remus had to be cut off immediately. If his being a half-blood and a Gryffindor weren't the most fortunate circumstances, but could ultimately be overlooked, being a werewolf was something Sirius couldn't bring himself to ignore. Feelings of affection and the first springs of love now mixed with an odd sensation of disgust twisting itself in his stomach and rising up to his throat to suffocate him. He hadn't fallen in love with a werewolf, because when he fell in love with Remus, Remus wasn't a werewolf to his knowledge. He did not love a werewolf — he loved Remus. And if Remus happened to be a werewolf, he would have to love only the part of him that was human, because he _did not_  love a werewolf. But he knew it was more complicated than that — that Remus was a werewolf and that the werewolf was him, and he couldn't have one without the other.

That night, he didn't go to the library, although he had an essay to write, because he knew that he would find him there. Instead, he wrote it in the Slytherin Common Room, involuntarily losing his focus and staring into blank space every other minute. Of course something like this had to happen; he should have always known that it was useless to go against fate. He didn't know how he'd let himself get carried away, how he had ever agreed to sharing any part of himself with this boy, and most of all how he could have let himself get attached to him despite the indisputable fact that one day he would have to walk away from him. Now, that day came earlier than expected, and he knew it wasn't a choice. Perhaps it wouldn't be easy, but it was what he had to do.

Once again, he found himself unable to do anything but accept this and move on, just like he'd always done. Somehow, he thought this routine was bound to get easier with time, but it only seemed to weigh ever heavier on his shoulders. He was always tempted to wonder what would happen if he just decided one day that he didn't care anymore, if he went against everything that he'd been taught and lived a life where his own wishes reigned. That, however, was a fantasy, and everyone knew it. One doesn't simply kick everything he's got for silly wishes meant to end in disappointment and regret.

So, repeating this mantra in his head over and over again, he met Remus at their usual spot in the library the next day. Although his limbs felt like lead and his breath didn't quite reach his lungs, he sat down next to him, his elbow on the table and his head propped up on his hand. Remus looked up with tired eyes, still recovering after his transformation, but offered Sirius a small smile. Sirius, for his part, was careful to keep his face stone cold. 

"I know," he said. 

A few moments of silence followed.

"I see," Remus said eventually, his voice strained, barely above a whisper. "And?"

"I won't tell anyone. Goodbye, Lupin."

Remus nodded, "Goodbye, Sirius."

He stood up and left the library with calculated steps, without looking back. He tried not to think about how the green in Remus's eyes faded just a shade as he'd uttered the words.

  


His hand is still burning. He stumbles to the kitchen sink and starts the faucet, tries to soothe the burn with cool water. It helps for a second or two, before the ache is back. He gives up, swears quietly and grabs a small kitchen towel to clean the tea spilled on the floor. When he remembers that his wand was in his pocket, the mess is already gone and he can't be bothered with his burning hand. He knows that throwing Remus's secret in his face was rude and unnecessary, but he admires the strength of mind he used to have. The Sirius from back then would have never given more than a thought to seeking Remus out, comforting him and asking for another chance, something he couldn't stop himself from mulling over now. He misses that, being able to step away without arguing with himself to the point of exhaustion. He misses being sure of himself and feeling that everything he did had a real, palpable reason — his name, his family, his future. Now, his name is something that he has to drag along for better or worse, his family is mostly estranged from him, and his future looks bleak.

But he remembers how even then he failed, how his loneliness and boredom got the better of him and, in fifth year, after more than six months with no words exchanged between him and Remus, on a frosty January morning, he tapped his shoulder at breakfast, choosing to ignore the threatening glare Potter shot him, then stared for three long seconds into Remus's eyes and left for his first class. He's still not entirely sure what compelled him to do that — he could blame it on a lot of things, but he supposes that, if he were to strip down his excuses, he'd missed Remus. He sometimes wishes that he hadn't acted on that impulse, that he'd stayed away, that he'd kept his life steady and linear. But although it hurts, he sits down on his chair again and admits that this hurt is the only honest thing he has.

  


He was sure that Remus had immediately understood what he'd meant, but he still had his doubts that he would actually show up, because showing up would be the first step towards forgiveness, and that seemed like too much to give. _He_ wouldn't have given it. That day he seemed to move from class to class through a foggy daze. In the evening, he sat in the library, his Transfiguration textbook lying open on the table, but entirely ignored. Sirius fiddled with his quill, throwing quick glances over his shoulders every other minute, feeling more and more like a fool and almost gathering his books and leaving, but reluctant to do so for fear of the increasingly unlikely event of Remus's arrival.

True to himself, Remus did eventually show up, his hair as brown and his contained smile as gentle as ever, although his robes looked a little more threadbare than the last time Sirius had bothered to notice and a new scar was poking out of the collar of his shirt.

"Hey," he said, setting his bag down on the table and taking a seat across from Sirius. "You wanted to talk?"

"I did, yeah."

"About what?"

"Anything, really. I saw you got a new owl. What's her name?"

"Maggie," Remus frowned. "Sirius, why are we here?"

"Because you came."

"No, Sirius, don't give me that. You know that's not what I asked."

"Look," Sirius started. "If you don't want to be here, you're free to leave. I just wanted to talk, that's all. Like before. I know it may have taken me longer than it should have, but now I'm all right with it, so if you want to talk, talk, if not, stop wasting my time. I've been sitting here long enough as it is."

"Was that an apology?"

"Call it whatever you like," Sirius shrugged. "But if you do decide to call it an apology, don't expect another one."

"I wasn't expecting one at all, so any resemblance of it is welcome. What made you change your mind?"

"I suppose it doesn't bother me as much as I thought it did, or as much as I wanted it to."

Remus smiled, and his eyes lit up their small corner of the library so warmly that Sirius couldn't help but break into a smile himself.

They quickly fell back into old rhythms, and it was only after a few weeks that Sirius realized how much he'd missed Remus's distinct sense of humour and cordial presence. Neither of them brought up the subject of his being a werewolf, but when February's full moon was over, Sirius found himself beside Remus's bed in the hospital wing in the first hours of morning. He was sleeping soundlessly on his side — his brown hair, which now reached the back of his neck and fell in messy bangs over his forehead, was covering half of his face. With a slightly trembling hand, Sirius reached out and brushed a strand of it away; he realized that was the first time he'd touched Remus on purpose. Feeling immediately guilty, he quickly pulled his hand away, threw one last glance at the sleeping boy and went to breakfast, focusing on anything but the way his fingertips still tingled.

That first touch turned out to be the first taste of something he now longed for stronger than before, and he suddenly found himself at a loss of what to do with his hands. They always seemed to either inch closer to Remus in unnatural motions or hang limply at his sides at awkward angles. He found himself searching for excuses to touch him whenever he handed him a book or sat down next to him, and it didn't take Remus long to become aware of this new development between them. Initially unsurely, then gradually with more confidence, his small touches received reciprocation, until one day he swallowed the knot in his throat and tentatively placed his fingers over Remus's while they were reading a muggle book the Gryffindor had brought to the library. Remus's hand twitched and he tore his eyes away from the page he was on to meet Sirius's own. What he found there must have reassured him, though, because he didn't pull his hand away, but instead offered a shy smile and went back to reading.

Although the Astronomy Tower now held less than pleasurable memories for Sirius, it was one of the few places outside the library where he could spend time with Remus without running the risk of being spotted by other students, so every week or so, they would meet there late in the evening and talk well into the chilly night hours, both shivering lightly from the cold, neither willing to go back to their respective dormitories. The low temperatures, although Sirius had never quite tolerated them, also served as a pretext to huddle closer to Remus, their arms and knees touching, their hands only sometimes bold enough to find each other. Sirius spent brief moments wondering what he was doing with this boy; everything could fall to ruins in a matter of seconds, should anyone ever spot them. Some days, he felt it was wrong and almost convinced himself it was merely an act of teenage rebellion on his part, but as soon as Remus's skin touched his own in the smallest of ways, both his brain and his pride turned to mush, and all he could do was revel in the feeling of human contact and try desperately to keep himself from smashing his lips unto Remus's.

So when Remus took that initiative, tired and fevered, only one night away from the impending full moon, Sirius's doubts not only washed away, but fell crippled to the ground. He responded slowly, fumblingly, brushing his lips against Remus's in gentle encouragement. After minutes of sharing this new-found way of touching, his hand was fisted in the other boy's hair, and his shoulders were grasped tightly by long fingers. When he pulled away, he drew Remus towards himself, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his neck, not uttering a word. He sighed, stroked Remus's hair tenderly, and looked up to the sky with glazed, lazy eyes. For the first time, he didn't need the stars to guide him along.

  


Sometimes, he thinks that he can still feel the ghost of Remus's fingers trailing his face, his neck, his back, his chest, leaving traces of warmth and lust and love. But most of the time, his body is cold, even beneath the layers of rich fabric. There are rare moments when he can still recall the feeling of Remus's breath on his neck, uneven and shallow as they explored each other's bodies, but the strength of the memory seems to fade a litle further every time, and he knows that soon, intimacy will dissolve into a distant image blurred around the edges. He closes his eyes and tries to summon up his dulled senses, but the echoes of Remus's body against his own only resound when they see fit, and not when they are called upon, so he is left stuck in the grim present of his lonesomeness.

He and Remus were never a couple. They sometimes wondered aloud what one could call this nameless accord they shared, but neither of them ever dared call it a relationship, although they both knew it wasn't a gratuitous exchange of touches, either. Remus taught Sirius how to listen, how to comfort and be comforted, how to laugh until his stomach hurt. Throughout it all, Sirius was careful not to let this shine through his cold exterior that he'd maintained in the face of everyone else. Remus once called him a liar, saying that this duplicitous personality did no good to anybody, and Sirius didn't hesitate to throw the insult back, accusing Remus of keeping his own identity a secret, although he knew it wasn't the same thing. Remus tried hard to understand him, he knew that, it was evident from the long list of times he'd forgiven him. But he didn't know what it was like to have the option to change, leave everything behind and start on a different path. It was that chance, that choice that made Sirius what he was, and it was what weighed down on him. The choice of ducking around the corner whenever he heard footsteps coming towards him and Remus, instead of staying rooted to the ground beside him. The choice of putting  his head down whenever his mother praised Regulus for the friendships he'd formed and kept at Hogwarts, all with the right people, instead of calling them all tossers and leaving. But it was too late, he didn't have anyone else to turn to, he had no one else to become, although the cracks in his own family had started to show through.

  


In the beginning of his seventh year, after an exceptionally long and dreadful summer, Remus seemed mostly content with having the lighthearted Sirius all to himself. But as winter rolled around and professors became more keen than ever on reminding them of the important exams that were ahead and their importance to their future careers, Remus became more and more aloof. Their shared time in the library was mostly spent writing, and conversation now came second. The nights in the Astronomy Tower grew shorter, while the dark circles under Remus's eyes seemed to blacken by the week. Sirius thought it was just his hardworking nature under the pressure of their final exams, but not long before the winter holidays, while he munched on a Chocolate Frog and leafed through the pages of his Charms textbook, Remus put his pen down and sighed.

"What do you figure you'll do when you leave Hogwarts?"

"Get a job at the Ministry, I suppose. Magical Law Enforcement, perhaps. My father should see to it soon enough."

"Right," Remus mumbled.

"Is this what the morose attitude is all about?", Sirius said, frowning. "That I'm going to get a good job?"

"No, Sirius," Remus snapped uncharacteristically. "It's not about that. It's just — what am I going to do?"

"What do you mean?", Sirius asked, confused, but then it dawned on him. "Oh. Well, I'm sure you'll be able to find something. At the rate you're going, you're probably going to get O’s in all your N.E.W.T.s."

"No," Remus shook his head. "You don't get it. There's a Registry. As soon as I'm out of here, I'll be forced to put my name down. Everyone will know. And believe me, not many would hire someone like me. Honestly, I'm starting to doubt all this effort is worth it. That piece of paper weighs heavier than any grade."

Remus's words echoed in Sirius's head. _'Everyone will know.'_  He knew what that meant - more than not being able to find a job. Outside Hogwarts, there was no quiet library and no Astronomy Tower. People would find out, and it was only a matter of time before the news reached his parents' ears. He stayed quiet for a few minutes.

"Sirius?"

"I'm sorry, Remus. But let's not worry about that yet. There's still time."

But that time seemed to be quickly running out. Before they knew it, it was already March and they had less than four months left in the place they'd called home for the last seven years. Remus seemed increasingly aware of that, acquiring a sort of omnipresent gloom following him. Full moons left him lying in the hospital bed for longer than usual, and he was always running to and fro between classes and among library shelves. Sirius had his suspicions that this behaviour was becoming a coping mechanism more than anything else. He hated seeing Remus like that, and missed the calm and collected boy he was used to. But he had his own concerns, ranging from the colder than usual attitude he'd received from his parents over the holidays, to studying for his exams, to the impending separation from Remus.

He knew it was inevitable. He couldn't afford to walk around with a known werewolf at arm's length. He'd managed to keep everything a secret at Hogwarts, where the castle's nooks and crannies had offered enough privacy not to be discovered if they were careful enough. But the real world had no such places, especially with his family's growing influence, so he knew the end of his last term also meant goodbye. He knew Remus didn't deserve this and shouldn't have to suffer because of him, but he couldn't do anything else. He still felt infinitely more tied to his family and what they asked of him. So, ignoring once more the pain in his chest, he dragged Remus to the Astronomy Tower, their established safe haven, and took a deep breath.

"I think you know what I want to say."

"I think so too."

"You know I hate that I have to do this."

"You don't have to. But I understand."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"It doesn't help, does it?"

"No."

"Yeah, I thought so," Sirius said, defeated. "Do you want to...?"

Remus nodded sullenly, but he stepped towards Sirius and they both sat down on the hard stone floor in silence. Remus rested his head on Sirius's shoulder, and they both closed their eyes.

A few days later, Sirius found himself being approached by none other than James Potter, who rudely proclaimed with no hesitation, "Black, you're a wanker, I hope you fucking know that!"

"What the hell?"

"Don't you dare pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Don't you think you've done enough already? Thought you'd just throw it out the window all over again, didn't you? You shameless bastard. I hope you're disgusted with yourself. And stay away. I don't think you're aware of how much harm you're causing."

"Sod off, Potter. No one asked you."

"Fine then. I hope you have a wonderful time kissing arse for the rest of your life."

Seething with fury, Sirius stormed away, leaving Potter staring daggers at his back.

  


He hadn't imagined that after all this time, James's words would haunt him more than ever. His heart is beating faster, his body is threatening to move from the chair without his approval, his head is spinning and his hand is still burning a dull ache. No, he definitely should not go. Every time he sought Remus out, every time he tried to make amends, it inevitably ended in bitterness, and he had no reason to believe this time would be any different. This was a passing change of heart, a sudden impulse of brief vulnerability, and it wouldn't be long until he'd turn away again. He was a wretched man. No matter how much he tried to go behind his family's backs, he would never take a real risk. Truthfully, there was no other way around it — he was a coward, plain and simple. He'd always thought of this excessive caution as a virtue, a sign of intelligence and self control. But the lie was slowly crumbling and falling at his feet. He'd left Remus's side twice, not because he had to, but because he was scared of the consequences of not doing so. Now, he didn't feel like he had much left to lose. His family had already agreed to allowing him to move into Alphard's old house without much insistence, not even bothering to mask their growing disinterest in him. When, after lengthy debates with himself, he'd refused to become a part of the family business, he could feel his mother's eyes boring holes into him, but she'd pressed her lips together and left the room wordlessly, her heels clicking behind her. He and Regulus had also grown distant over time, his brother seeming more keen on keeping family traditions alive than he was. His uncle was dead, and the only one who still visited him with conversational purpose in mind was his cousin Andromeda, who'd long been disowned for marrying a muggle-born.

Still, he can't bring himself to move. There is still an unalterable sense of loyalty he feels he owes to his family that keeps him stranded in his place. He doesn't really care if he upsets them, not anymore, but he is still overwhelmed by a sinister shame whenever he thinks of open confrontation. He supposes this is a fault ingrained in him ever since childhood, and he doubts he will ever truly escape it, no matter how estranged from his family he might eventually end up. But he doesn't remember feeling it in the moments he spent with Remus. They were too sincere, too tender, too comforting to ever feel ashamed of anything in the heat of the moment. His intimate memories of Remus are some of the only ones he feels no regret over.

There were no stars to guide him now. The late morning sun shone through the curtains, and he didn't feel much like a star himself. He had the feeling that this time, the choice was uniquely his own, and it was definitive. There was no ducking around corners now and no compromises to make. There was Remus, there were James and Lily, whose bodies were now cold and lifeless for no reason other than cruelty, and there was him, who could sit idly by and watch this chaos unfold, or finally take his fate into his own hands.

  


The last day he ever spent at Hogwarts was grey and deeply depressing. He'd packed all of his belongings neatly into his trunk and spent most of the afternoon walking around the castle grounds for one last time. Seven years had come and gone, and he was leaving school much the same as he'd arrived — alone, only now with a heavy conscience. After darkness fell and everyone seemed to quiet down, lost in their own melancholy thoughts, he climbed the stairs up to the Astronomy Tower, slowly, savouring every step, hoping that he would find Remus there, although they hadn't spoken more than a few words to each other ever since James's outburst. He knew Remus, however, and expected he needed some kind of closure, after all.

Sure enough, Remus was there, true to himself. Sirius sat down next to him as he had done a thousand times before and brought his knees up to his chest, putting his arms around them. Remus spared him a glance, but remained still and silent. For a while, they seemed content to enjoy each other's quiet company, but eventually, Sirius sighed and spoke.

"Do you hate me?"

"No," Remus said evenly, without hesitation. "Hate is a strong word, Sirius. But I do wish things were a bit different."

"Do you think you'll ever forgive me?"

"I'm afraid I already have," Remus smiled wistfully.

Afterwards, they held each other, shared light, soft kisses that tried to capture every bit of the affection they felt, and talked about trivial things in an attempt to ignore the frighteningly short time they had left. They clung to their last seconds, parting only after the sun had lit up the sky, with hushed goodbyes and the feeling that it still wasn't enough, that there were still things left to say; but they would have to remain unspoken, hanging in the air between them.

Later in the morning, running on a single hour of sleep, Sirius swallowed his heart, got on the Hogwarts Express Train robotically, took a seat in an empty compartment and tried to remember who he was, even if that meant having to forget Remus.

  


He was wrong. All along, he was wrong, he sees that now. And there is a point in wondering _what if_   — because there is a chance it's not too late. What if he had chosen to live life in his own way? Would he have been happy? Would he have been loved? Would he have missed being the Black heir — would he have felt ashamed of that? He doesn't know. He thinks that maybe, if the Sorting Hat had put him in something other than Slytherin, Gryffindor for example, he could have been friends with Remus not only behind closed doors, and anyone else he wanted. Because that's when it all started — the cursed moment that hat touched his head, it sealed him away with the rest of the Blacks before him. How merciless, he thinks, to be given one chance when you are but a child, and then be thrown together with a bunch of people who are supposed to be like you for seven years. He doesn't think it was a mistake on the Sorting Hat's part; he knows where he belongs, where he always has. But it hurts him that he was never good enough for either side - too soft for his family, too cold for everyone else. But he's found a person who accepted and maybe even loved him despite his contradictions and hazardous temper, and he realizes now that he was never ready to give that up, whatever lies he might have lead himself to believe.

  


This is it. This is all he has. This is his last chance, and he's finally ready to take it.

He stands up, kicking his chair back, and shoots to the door. He shrugs his coat on and ties his shoelaces in a frenzy, then the door shuts with a thud. His mind is reeling and his heart is thumping arhythmically against his chest.

When he reaches Remus's small flat, the door is unlocked, the windows are open, papers litter the floor, and Remus is already gone.

  


_The sun is shining brightly outside, and no stars stain the sky. There is a man standing at the door frame; his heart is open. He is human._


End file.
